The boy, he rests his hand upon
our existential window,
et je sais que ce n’est pas bon,1
si ses yeux sont des ciseaux.2
A life that mustn’t satisfy
this ageless man, he spins.
His boyish face can’t rectify
the weathered heart within.
With broken seams and mended dreams,
I face him, just, and say,
“Why do you frown just when it seems
the hardships go away?”
His heart unkempt and terrified,
the boy not quite a man,
stretches his hands, un-unified,
autour son coeur;3 Tian Shan.4
A pool of realized fears that shelve
a gaze with no reflection–
he tells me I don’t fool myself
despite my insurrection.
To stand before his realm of glass;
To face myself in vain.
The difference, you see, does not surpass
the image I did gain.
He breathed a breath serrated, and
made contact he did not.
Shed soft tears and still was jaded–
his pitied closet of rot.
1“and I know this is not good” 2“if his eyes are like scissors” 3“around his heart” 4A major mountain range of Central Asia, extends 1500ft.
I wrote this in University September ’11. Somehow it seems fitting. My former self must have known I’d need this one day.